


Captain's Orders

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Overworking, downtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 04:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Two of his officers have been working too hard and it's up to Jonathan intervene.  Fortunately, he knows their weak spots...





	

Commander Trip Tucker slumped into the turbolift, letting his gritty eyes seal shut. How many hours since he’d last gotten out of Engineering? Most of his team wouldn’t believe it possible but the answer, categorically, was _too damn many._

You knew it had been one hell of a week when a summons to the Ready Room was as welcome as a fresh-baked pecan pie. Wearily Tucker scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the scrape of a beard against his work-leathered palm. “Man, I need a shower ‘n’ a shave!”

“I think that goes for both of us, Commander.”

“Wha – oh, hi, Malcolm.” If he was so far gone he didn’t feel the judder of the slowing ‘lift or catch the hiss of its opening door, Trip figured fuzzily that cleaning up wasn’t such a good idea. He’d likely cut his own throat with the razor. “How’s it comin’ with the launchers?”

“I’d have them back online by now if the captain hadn’t summoned me for a personal bloody report.” 

It was almost a whine, and it made two dark blond brows mountaineer up Tucker’s broad brow. “You too, huh?” he said simply.

Reed stared at him blankly for all of three seconds before realisation struck. “The bastard’s got us, hasn’t he?”

It was, Tucker reflected, the improper reference to their commanding officer spoken by a subordinate to one of higher rank that shook him out of his stupor: not that he could argue with the tactical officer’s assessment of their position. “Looks that way,” he said amiably. “And he could have a point. You look like hell.”

“Pot, may I introduce Kettle?” Collapsed at his side the dark-haired lieutenant let his aching head drop, sharp chin nestling in where the zipper of his flight suit usually rested. “You’ve got oil all over your face.”

“You’re not exactly dressed for inspection yourself.” Gamely Trip scrubbed across his whole face, drying the stained palm against his hip. “Sure it’s not gonna stall my engines, you steppin’ onto that bridge less than parade ready?”

“Stuff your engines.”

“Don’t tempt me.” The Brit looked awfully good, Trip noticed vaguely, with his sleeves up past his elbows, jumpsuit open halfway down his chest and his glossy dark hair the kind of messy tumble that usually followed a hot night in the sack. It was a sight that should have recharged his personal weapons array in a nanosecond, but didn’t.

“Damn, I’m beat!”

“I imagine that’s what Matron wants to see us about.” Straightening shoulders twisted by four hours in the aft cannon port caused a wince: Malcolm gave up halfway through. “Ready to be lectured, Commander?”

Trip raised a shadow of his usual breezy grin. “As I’ll ever be. Evenin’, Travis. Grandpa in his rocking chair?”

“Aye, sir.” The helmsman chuckled, keeping himself angled carefully away from the waves of disapproval emanating from the science station aft. “It’s good to have warp back,” he added.

“No kiddin’.” Amiably waving his companion across the bridge (and pretending he didn’t catch Reed’s hiss as he jolted down the low step from the aft section) Tucker threw the Vulcan manning said station a friendly grin. “Cap’n?”

“Come in, Commander.” Formal but friendly, Jonathan Archer rose from his chair with head carefully dipped. Not for the first time Tucker found himself envying the third member of the group. Malcolm could – if he could only get his shoulders to oblige – stand straight upright in this sorry excuse for a cleaning closet designated the office of a captain over six feet tall. “I understand we’ve got all critical systems – including weapons – pretty much back online.”

“I can’t speak for the armoury, Cap’n, but we’re good t’ go in Engineering.”

“Just the aft launchers to finish resequencing, sir. Forward launchers, all cannons, tactical sensors and hull plating are within normal parameters.”

And there, Tucker considered idly, was the difference between him and the love of his life in two sentences. One sweeping statement, one precise, catalogued report. _No wonder Uncle Johnny’s fighting off a gut-buster._

“That’s good to hear. So: you mind telling me why you’re both still on duty after fifty hours?”

“Fifty?” Damn. He’d lost count somewhere around thirty-four. “Uh, we’ve been busy.”

“I know that, Trip.” And he appreciated it, knowing no captain was more blessed in his senior staff than Jonathan Archer. “But I’m going to need you both awake at your stations when we reach the Kamarazite system in approximately fifteen hours. You’re both off duty until 1300 tomorrow.”

One mouth opened in immediate protest, but with a chop of the hand Archer stopped the words on his most punctilious subordinate’s tongue. “According to T’Pol we’re walking into the middle of a pretty tense situation. I’m going to need my tactical officer, Mister Reed.”

“Aye, sir.” The meekness of the Englishman’s submission proved Archer’s point admirably even if he hadn’t been drooping as visibly as the lock of hair that curled down the middle of his forehead. A brawny hand stretched out to grip his shoulder, as if the older, better-rested officer could pour some of his own strength into the slighter.

“This is tonight’s menu,” he announced, thrusting a PADD into Tucker’s hands. “Take your pick and Chef’ll have it delivered to Trip’s quarters in thirty minutes.”

That brought _Lieutenant Reed_ to bristling _Attention_. “Sir…”

“C’mon, Malcolm, it’s not like Chef doesn’t know about us!”

“I realise that, Commander.” The title was out on instinct and despite the obvious incongruity Trip didn’t challenge, simply flicking a pleading look to his old friend. “But it’s really not appropriate…”

“Propriety be damned!”

If Starfleet’s most famous officer had mutated into a Suliban agent before his eyes Malcolm couldn’t have looked more scandalised: and if he wasn’t so dog-tired, Trip would have called him on it. “If I send something to your quarters, you’ll ignore it,” Archer continued, all sweet reason. “Same with Trip. You need to clean up, eat and unwind, both of you. Now, I don’t trust either of you to look after yourselves, but I know damn well you’ll take care of each other.”

“That’s Vulcan logic, right there.”

“Give it a rest, Trip.” The fond words were accompanied with a friendly swipe that knocked the swaying Southerner off-balance and into his neighbour. “Go shower, change and eat; that’s an order! What you do after that, I really don’t need to know.”

“Glad to hear it, sir.” Still, Malcolm waited for the nod that indicated dismissal before turning on his heel and trudging for the door. “Not that I’m up to anything interesting, by the way.”

“Me neither. G’night, Cap’n.”

“’night, Trip.” Feeling more like a father than a friend – not an uncommon experience where Charles Tucker the Third was concerned – Jonathan Archer snatched the topmost report from his stack and sank into its mundane embrace, resolutely forcing all thought of the interesting ways his officers might use their morning off from his head.

*

A brisk, tepid shower, Reed conceded, made the prospect of food more palatable than it had been in the ready room: and his professional self applauded the captain’s tactics even as the civilian in him shrivelled from so casual an acknowledgement of his recently-changed relationship status. It was absurd, he acknowledged, but - there it was. The whole ship could know Lieutenant Reed spent half his nights in Commander Tucker’s quarters (that half the chief engineer didn’t pass in the armoury officer’s), just so long as nobody actually mentioned it.

Trust Jonathan Archer to toss another rule out of the handiest airlock, albeit one he wouldn’t find in any Starfleet guidebook!

Giving himself a brisk towel-down the Englishman contemplated the contents of his closets before snatching a pair of old black sweatpants and a bulky grey sweater. This wasn’t exactly date night. Trip wouldn’t expect him to make an effort - would he?

It was a profound relief to be ushered into Tucker’s quarters by a similarly casual chief engineer, dark gold hair still damply spiked from the shower. “Damn, it’s good to be outta uniform!” he groaned, tugging his guest straight into a cosy embrace. “I didn’t realise I was hungry ‘til I got out of the shower either.”

“S’pose that’s why he’s the captain.” _Clean_ , he realised. For the first time since God-alone-knew-when, Malcolm could smell cleanness: the freshness of soap and shampoo; the intoxicating crisp scent of scrubbed male skin. With a small mew of pleasure he buried his nose into Trip’s fleece sweatshirt, feeling the stresses of the last week begin to leak out through every pore. 

Soft lips ghosted through his hair and the arms around his waist pulled tighter. “Maybe. Gimme a kiss?”

“Mmmm, gladly.” His head felt heavy when he tried to raise it but those full pink Floridian lips exerted the magnetism of a black hole and the pressure of them, warm and malleable as they worked across his mouth, made Reed’s head swim faster than a whole case of Andorian Ale. In a daze he welcomed his lover’s questing tongue, sucking its supple length deep into his mouth and lapping the pleasured whimper that rolled down it. Time stopped. He could feel the universe melting away.

Right until the shrill of a Starfleet doorchime, a sound designed to be intrusive in a warzone, shattered the spell. “Dinner for two!” the too-jolly voice of Crewman Cunningham warbled, barely distorted by the bulkheads. “Just leave the trays outside and I’ll collect them later, Commander!”

“Thanks.” Trip shuffled back, blearily enthralled by the sloe-eyed sleepy pleasure that softened his partner’s normally sharp features. “Siddown, Mal. I’ll get it.”

The table, Reed realised belatedly, had been set: or rather, the contents of Trip’s desk had been shoved in a corner and a small foldaway chair placed facing the owner’s, while a chipped mug and a pair of gaudy paper flowers made a slightly off-centre centrepiece. Sitting on his hands until the urge to realign it had worn off, Malcolm shot the blond a quizzical look. “Er, Trip?”

“Dianna – my niece. She made them last time we were home, said I should bring ‘em with me seeing how Mommy said we don’t have flowers in space.” Trip shrugged, so delightfully embarrassed it was all he could do not to laugh. “Figured now’s as good a time as any to make use of the damn things.”

“Who says romance is dead?” Nose a-twitching at the tempting aromas escaping from the covered plates in Tucker’s arms, Malcolm ran a tentative finger over a paint-laden yellow petal. “How old is she?”

“Four. Okay, so the pasta’s yours, right?”

“Thanks.” Delicate strands coated in a creamy ham and mushroom sauce called to him and Malcolm answered with gusto, twirling his fork through their heart. “I don’t remember ordering pudding.”

“Me neither, but I can guess which is mine.”

A colossal wedge of pecan pie glistened alongside a dollop of what might almost pass for fresh cream; alongside it stood a chunk of lemon meringue, its pristine peaks lightly browned above a brilliant ribbon of lemon curd. Pacific-blue eyes met stormy Atlantic grey. Reed’s lips twitched.

“D’ you think he’ll snitch to the captain if we go straight to dessert?” 

“One hundred percent yes.”

“Bugger. Better get on with it, then.”

Conversation stopped while both men chewed remorselessly through their main course, one exchanging a morsel of sauce-smothered fettucine for the other’s piece of juicy pork. “If I see another fried EPS conduit this month, I’m quitting Starfleet,” Trip announced a propos of mothing. Malcolm snorted.

“You realise you’ve just jinxed us?”

Trip snickered. “The galaxy jinxes us, Malcolm. It doesn’t need any help from me.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the pessimist?”

Dinner forgotten, the Southerner stretched to chuck his boyfriend under the chin. “Thought you called it realism?”

“Touché.” This, Reed realised, was what he had been craving, all unknowing. Not rest or food, but the quiet happiness being with this man brought him. He caught Trip’s withdrawing hand, brushing his lips across the knuckles. Tucker smiled.

“Missed you too,” he murmured, guiding their joined hands to return the favour. Whole flocks of tiny butterflies took flight beneath Malcolm’s skin.

Main course completed they turned eagerly to their unexpected treats, although the Englishman chortled at the dubious way Trip prodded his “cream”. “Flush it down the lav if you don’t fancy it – he’ll hit the roof if that plate doesn’t go back clean,” he instructed. “Pie all right?”

“Pie’s good.” With a generosity he would show no other Trip redirected a healthy (cream free) forkful from his own mouth to Malcolm’s. “Prob’ly too much sugar for you.”

“Possibly.” Gummy and sugary, the thick topping seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth and gratefully Reed dug into his own dessert for relief. “Want some?”

“’kay.” The next spoonful went his way and the engineer sat back, sucking it with a contemplative air. “I can see why you like it so much,” he said at last. “It’s you in a pastry case, isn’t it?”

Reed’s dark head jerked back as if it had connected with a Klingon right-hook. “What _are_ you talking about?” he demanded.

The handsome face opposite broke into its cockiest _don’t-you-just-want-to-knock-my-teeth-out-right-now_ smile. “Sweet and sharp in one mouthful. Just like you.”

“I. Am not. Sweet.”

“Only off-duty,” Trip amended, dropping his fork with a _ching_ to raise both palms in mock surrender. “Armoury officers aren’t sweet. Got that. And c’n I finish my pie, or are you still gonna strangle me?”

Reed huffed, then his eyes took on a dangerous glimmer. “I suppose there _is_ a comparison between you and that puddle of liquefied sugar when you think about it.”

Blond brows waggled. “Yeah?”

Malcolm sat back. Smirked. “Sickeningly sweet, all the time.”

He looked so pleased with himself there was no way Trip could burst his pretty bubble. “Too kind, Lootenant,” he drawled, elongating the title to ridiculous lengths for the simple joy of hearing its owner laugh. “That mean you’re not gonna steal any more off me?”

“Eagle Scout’s honour.” With a careful roll of too-tight shoulders Reed contemplated the engineer’s pudding solemnly. “Don’t think I could reach that far, actually. Must’ve pulled every muscle in my right arm.”

“That’s what you’ll get from bein’ all smushed in a corner of the cannon housing all day.”

“And over-stretching. So, I suppose you let Kelly do all the fiddly stuff in the crawlspace?”

“Nope.”

“When I’m less knackered I’ll give you a massage.”

“See? Sweet!”

“Or hopeless.” Scraping up the last smear of lemon curd Reed shoved his dishes onto the abandoned tray and deftly collected his companion’s. “Okay. We’ve eaten. Does that mean we can go to bed now?”

“Ah love it when you’re eager.”

“Trip.” Wincing visibly as he stooped to leave the trays outside, Reed cast a fond smile back at his preening lover. “I don’t wish to dent your ego, but… _not tonight, Josephine!_ as the Emperor of the French supposedly cried.”

“Y’ know, I never thought I’d say this but - hallelujah, I’m right out of gas. How ‘bout we snuggle down with an old movie we’ve both seen a hundred times?”

Small furrows cutting between his brows, Malcolm unconsciously adopted his _I’m-really-not-sure-that’s-a-good-idea-captain_ situation room stance. “Why would we do that?” he began.

“’cause it won’t matter if we fall asleep halfway through.” Already propped up against a stack of pillows Trip pushed his leaden legs apart and extended his arms to the smaller man. Reed pursed his lips for a moment before breaking into a dazzling smile.

“Sounds lovely,” he said, crawling into position between the parted thighs, head coming to rest, ticklish, in the hollow of the Southerner’s throat. “What d’ you think? The Great Escape? The Wizard of Oz? One of your appalling science fiction B-movies?”

“The Great Escape sounds good.” Idly scrolling through the screen’s menu, Tucker stopped at the first suggestion he found. “Warm enough?”

“Hmmmm.” He’d be asleep long before the first P.O.W. neared the barbed wire but Malcolm decided he didn’t care. Trip’s arms linked loosely around him, one big, work-rough hand slipping inside his sweater. Trip’s citrus-and-spice scent played around his nostrils, as subtly erotic as any caress. What little of the week’s stress that remained slipped away, leaving him with a hazy sensation of almost post-coital languor. At this rate he wouldn’t get past the opening credits.

Trip held himself still until the younger man’s shallow breaths began to lengthen, hyper-aware of the way Reed’s taut body melted into his. “Sleep now, darlin’” he murmured, weaving the words through the drowsy Englishman’s hair. “’s alright, I’m here, we’re safe now. You just go to sleep.”

The movie played on quietly to the end. Lulled by the steadiness of his lover’s breathing and the comforting weight of the man against his chest Trip Tucker succumbed to the heady combination of exhaustion and domestic bliss, following his soulmate into sleep.

*

“Hey, Malcolm.” Jonathan Archer swung to smile at the officer striding jauntily to his aft station right from lunch, taking in the serene set of the sharply-angled features, the trace of a lingering smile, and the tall blond engineer almost skipping in his wake. “Trip. Nothing to do in Engineering?”

“All in hand, Cap’n. Figured you wouldn’t mind me comin’ up to check out the view.”

Not, the captain considered wryly, aware of the grins being directed rearward from the two forward stations, that of the passing stars - which the chief engineer was ignoring in favour of a besotted study of their armoury officer while Reed’s fingers flew across his console. “You’re always welcome, Commander. Just try not to get in the way,” 

“Yessir.” Obediently Tucker shuffled farther from the turbolift, an action that, not quite coincidentally, brought him right up to the tactical station. 

Repressing a bigger smile than his helmsman Archer swung to face the viewscreen with a lightened heart. Rested, refreshed and at ease, his two key officers were ready for anything the galaxy could throw at them.

And if Trip wasn’t up to sitting down for a while he thought, watching the Southerner blush as he brushed off an innocent crewman’s offer of the engineering station seat, he certainly wasn’t going to ask the reason why!


End file.
